


O Clouds Unfold

by lowflyingfruit



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is an Englishman, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 19:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowflyingfruit/pseuds/lowflyingfruit
Summary: Over the years, Alfred tries to introduce the younger members of the Batfamily to the noble sport of cricket.





	O Clouds Unfold

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to Shine Forth Upon These Clouded Hills. Title taken from the same poem for the same reasons.

“What do you mean it goes for _five days_?” young Master Richard asked, eyes wide, looking up from Alfred’s television. “Wow. The players must get really tired.”

“It depends,” Alfred said. “Only two members of the team batting will be on the field, while the other members of the team rest. As for the fielding team, the drain on them is slower, as most of them are standing there. Concentrating for that amount of time, however, can be very hard on them. The bowlers, of course, can and do get very tired when an innings goes on for some time.”

Master Richard swung himself around on the kitchen stool he was perched on. He was looking better these days. More energetic. Lord, was the boy energetic. Alfred did not like it, but this notion of Bruce’s to include Master Richard in his crusade _did_ seem to be doing the boy good.

Today, however, he was recovering from a touch of muscle strain, and Master Bruce had sentenced him to the library.

What Master Bruce seemed not to realise about Master Richard just yet was that given the option between reading a book and talking to someone, Master Richard was always going to choose to talk. He retained it like a sponge retained water, too.

“What happens if they’re not finished in five days?” Master Richard asked. “I mean, if it takes them five days anyway, it could go longer, right?”

“At the end of five days the game finishes in a draw,” Alfred said. “Attempting to run out the clock is a valid tactic.”

After Alfred explained what ‘run out the clock’ meant - Richard’s spoken English was fluent, but there was always another idiom to learn, it seemed - Richard said, “It sounds really boring.”

“There are periods in even the best matches that can be quite uneventful,” Alfred agreed. “But even mediocre matches can provide thrilling passages of play. Mind, will, and temperament are very important in cricket, as it takes a great deal of nerve to maintain one’s own performance when your teammates are underperforming - and, of course, there is little that is boring about batting. Cricket balls are quite hard.”

A distinctive shuffle came fromt he TV. Another dot ball. Master Richard was probably not in a position to appreciate an explanation of how the lack of ability to score runs built up pressure in the mind, could force the batsman to make errors, even as the bowlers struggled to maintain their discipline. “How fast do they throw the ball?” Master Richard asked.

“Bowl, Master Richard,” Alfred corrected. “There are technical differences between the motions. Throwing the ball is illegal. As for the speed, it is slower than pitching in baseball - the very fastest bowlers reach speeds above ninety miles per hour.”

“Is that fast?”

“It’s fast.”

Master Richard watched a few more deliveries. The match was not one Alfred was particularly invested in the outcome of, being between the West Indies and India. He watched a lot of West Indian matches these days, purely due to time zone compatibility. Nor was it the sort of Test match Alfred would have used to introduce an impatient young boy to the sport. This one would probably be over by tomorrow.

“I don’t get it,” Master Richard sighed. “Why do people like it?”

Master Richard was not much for sitting and watching _anything_. And one of the true joys of the sport was that adapted forms could be played almost anywhere there was a flat strip of land and room to swing a bat. Wayne Manor had both.

“If you will give me another five minutes to finish marinating this chicken,” Alfred said, “I will get out the bat I bought Master Bruce when he was a little older than you, and I can show you how to play.”

Master Richard grinned, hopped on top of one of the kitchen stools, and carefully imitated a batsman’s stance, then the most dramatic of the sweep shots that had been played while they’d been watching. For a first attempt, it was excellent. “That sounds a lot more fun than five days standing in a field,” he said.

 

—

 

Alfred didn’t even think about turning the TV on after driving Master Jason home from school; he simply did it. His own beloved England was playing, in a time zone where he could watch.

He had not counted on Master Jason.

“What _is_ that?” Master Jason asked. Alfred set down the vegetables to be peeled for the night’s dinner in front of him. “That’s not baseball.”

Master Jason, of course, was so knowledgeable about certain things that it was almost shocking when the profound gaps in his knowledge made themselves known. The communities of people most likely to watch and play cricket lived elsewhere in the city; most of his exposure to literary and popular culture had been through an under-resourced public library. “Cricket, Master Jason,” Alfred said.

Jason stared at the screen as he stared at most things unfamiliar to him at first - suspiciously, as if it might bite him. “All that white’s stupid,” he said.“It’s going to get dirty.”

“Clothes get dirty anyway,” Alfred said serenely. “This is a professional sport. Exertion is normal.”

“What are they trying to _do?_ ” Jason asked.

“The batsmen are trying to score as many runs as possible, either by both batsmen running from one end of the pitch to the other or by hitting the ball to the edge of the ground,” Alfred explained. “The fielding team are trying to get them out in any number of ways, the most common of which are catching the ball after it’s hit, or by hitting the stumps behind the batsman.”

Master Jason grunted, only dropping his eyes from the screen to make sure that he was peeling carrots rather than his own thumbs. “They could just stand in front of the - stumps? - then.”

“Alas, one of the ways for a batsman to get out in cricket is to be struck on the legs by a ball the umpire judges would have gone on to hit the stumps. Once ten out of eleven batsmen have been dismissed, the teams swap.”

“Highest score wins?”

“After two innings, yes.”

“It looks really easy to make runs,” Master Jason said, as the English batsmen completed another two.

“On some pitches. On others, or against bowlers playing well, it’s much harder.”

Jason still looked doubtful, but he kept watching. He adopted the second of his reactions to unfamiliar things as he did, the one in which he was clearly searching for some sort of catch. Alfred went about the cooking as the match continued, until his attention was caught by a collective groan from the audience. “My goodness,” Alfred said, watching the replay.

The delivery was an excellent one. It had landed and then positively ripped off the pitch and past the edge of the bat. England were lucky not to have lost a wicket. Hence the groan.

“How did he do that?” Jason demanded.

“Spin,”Alfred said. “The ball comes out of the hand spinning so that it bounces differently when it hits the pitch.” He demonstrated his old offspin motion as best he could without a ball.

“And that - “ Jason did his best to copy - “makes the ball do _that_?”

“Plenty of bowlers can make the ball do more,” Alfred said.

“Bullshit.”

Alfred tried to suppress a frown. If Jason was so surprised by the concept of spin, he truly had very little exposure to sports in general. Even basketball. Perhaps he’d never hadthe time, or perhaps participating in local games was dangerous for him. If Alfred was certain of one thing, though, it was that Jason would not take kindly to Alfred expressing that surprise. “I assure you it’s true,” he said, and pulled out his phone. “Here,” he said, bringing up some relevant video. “This is leg spin, not offspin, but it’s still remarkable.”

He left Jason to it, something for him to watch while he finished the chores he insisted on doing. There was a little frown on Master Jason’s face as he worked the art of spin bowling out for himself.

Alfred turned away and smiled.

 

—

 

Alfred was very close to losing his composure. It was a quiet night out on Gotham’s streets, as these things went, but his team was not faring so well on tour. Who had _prepared_ that pitch? It was a disgrace.

And if his team would stop making foolish shots, that would be appreciated too. It was time to hunker down and ensure the onslaught, not blast their way out of the situation.

Honestly, he blamed Twenty/20.

“Not going well, huh?” Master Timothy asked, approaching from behind.

“Not in the slightest,” Alfred sniffed. “Four down. Four!” Then he realised. “You are not going out on patrol tonight?”

“I’ve got to be at school early tomorrow,” Master Timothy said. “I didn’t write a patrol report last night and I still haven’t chased up the accounts for the Black Mask thing, so I thought I’d do that, and then go home and get some sleep.”

“Very wise,” Alfred said.

Timothy settled in next to him, as Alfred tried not to watch the carnage. “I’ve never actually seen a match,” Master Timothy said. “Though I’ve caught Bruce checking scores from time to time.”

“The time zones are unkind to cricket fans in these particular dark Satanic mills,” Alfred said, but he took the hint and brought the feed up on a larger screen. This would be a good time for his team to stop playing so poorly, though admittedly, any time was a good time for that. “I probably watch more cricket down here than I do upstairs.”

They each settled in to their night’s work, Alfred’s private prayers for more competent play answered for the meantime. “Fast bowling looks like it would be hard on your back,” Master Timothy commented at one point.

“And the shoulders, and the knees, all depending on the action,” Alfred said. “There are reasons I preferred spin bowling.”

“ _That_ looks like it would be hard on your fingers and wrists.”

“We can’t have everything,” Alfred sighed, but further comment was forestalled by a tremendous appeal. Damn it, not another one. Alfred leaned forward to watch the replay. Leg before. They were sending it up to the third umpire.

Tim leaned forward too. “What’s the rule?” he asked. “The ball has to be going on to hit the stumps, right?”

The replay went on, caught in excruciating slow motion. “The ball has to pitch in line with the stumps or on the off side - the side with the bat - and since he’s playing a shot, the ball has to hit him in line, too.” Alfred frowned. It was a close one. Had that struck outside the line? Was it going too high?

“That’s out, then,” Master Timothy said.

Alfred kept frowning. “Are you sure?”

Timothy traced the path of the ball against the screen, accounting for perspective. “Pitched in line,” he said, tapping the point of impact. “Hit in line,” he said, with another tap. “Going on to hit the stumps,” he concluded.

“Blast,” Alfred said, as the Hawkeye software bore out Master Timothy’s prediction. “Excellent eye, Master Timothy, regrettable as the conclusion would seem.”

Master Timothy shrugged. “It’s just math. And rules.”

“Still,” Alfred said, “Would that every umpire was as perspicacious.”

“Sorry about the score, though.”

“Oh, Master Timothy,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “Watch more games and you will understand that in this case, my team brought it on themselves. There’s nothing for you to be sorry for, and everything to make me wish I preferred another sport.”

Timothy laughed. “Then maybe it’s just cricket fans I don’t get,” he said.

 

—

 

It was strange to see Miss Cassandra ill. She was so rarely injured that Alfred tended to assume she was that bit less destructible than the boys; now she was red-eyed and listless, quiet except for the sniffling, from an unfortunately severe bout with the common cold.

There was nothing to be done about _that_ but to ensure she rested and kept her fluids up. The latter was accomplished with plenty of lemon and ginger tea. The former was more challenging, as Miss Cassandra insisted on following him around and attempting to help with his chores.

“What say we _both_ take a break, then?” Alfred asked. He was prepared to do whatever it took to ensure she rested.

He didn’t leave her the space to argue, just fetched a blanket and more lemon tea for her, made a pot of black tea for himself, and marched them both to the living room. A bit of flicking through the channels revealed that there was a Test match on - New Zealand and India, in India. “There,” he said to Miss Cassandra. “I am resting, and so should you.”

Miss Cassandra sniffled.

The match was a good one. New Zealand’s batters were in good form, but the Indian home advantage was nothing to be sneezed at, so to speak. They’d caught it in the steady period where runs mounted. “I don’t know how familiar you are with cricket,” Alfred saidquietly. “I fear the only member of the family I have successfully shared the joys of the sport with is Master Bruce. I enjoy it very much, though, and it is one of the things I miss most about England.”

“All the players are tense,” Miss Cassandra said, voice hoarse. “I see why Bruce likes it.All the concentration. Have to be ready.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said. “Personally, Miss Cassandra, I think you would make a fine wicket-keeper, if ever you have the opportunity to play. They need excellent reaction times and the ability to read both bowler and batter.”

Cassandra hummed. “I could do that,” she said. “It looks fun.”

She sounded sleepy, now. Alfred’s plan was working. He told her about stumping and refilled her tea once more, and she sank further into her overstuffed armchair.Runs continued to accumulate, slowly and steadily, the Kiwi batters fending off spin and pace alike.

“I like this too,” Cassandra said, after half an hour or so. “It has rhythm. Very soothing.”

“Cricket is a fine sport to listen to on the radio,” he said. “When I was in basic training for the army…”

He trailed off, because a glance over at Miss Cassandra revealed that she was asleep. Alfred pulled her blanket up further around her shoulders and snuck out, leaving the game on.

 

—

 

Master Damian skidded into the cave on his motorcycle without any sort of call ahead, and Alfred had to admit, he was reasonably startled. “What are you watching, Pennyworth?” Master Damian demanded, tone just the correct side of impolite.

“Cricket, Master Damian,” Alfred said. “My team is playing an Ashes match, and you know, I think we may just win.”

“Turn it off,” Damian ordered. “Everyone’s coming back here. Father wanted to meet with us.”

“Oh?” Alfred said. He made no move towards turning off the broadcast. Firstly, he was not in the habit of obeying Damian, especially when he did not use the word _please_ , and secondly, it was the _Ashes_. “I don’t see them.”

That was, of course, when Masters Richard and Jason also screeched into the cave on their own bikes, Master Richard a metre or so ahead of his brother. Richard’s grin and Jason’s glare made it clear there was a race. “We’re here!” Richard said. “What’s going on?”

“Pennyworth is watching _sports_ ,” Master Damian said.

“Cricket?” Master Jason asked. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen that on.”

“It’s been ages since I played any!” Master Richard said. “Dami, have you played? I know you must have seen some.” The League of Assassins recruited from Pakistan and Afghanistan amongst other places; Richard was quite probably correct. “Let’s get this set up. I know Bruce has got tennis balls down here.”

“And why would I want to play?” Damian demanded.

“Because it’s basically an opportunity to throw half bricks at people,” Master Jason said. “We all know you like doing that.”

Timothy and Cassandra were the next to return, as Master Richard tore apart the training area in search of a suitable ball. Damian hadn’t fled, which Alfred understood to be a sign that he truly was curious and didn’t wish to show it. “Now what’s happening?” Master Timothy asked.

“Dickhead can’t improvise stumps,” Master Jason called back.

Master Timothy frowned. “Cass, help me get the weights off one end of these barbells. We’ll put them with the weight ends down.”

“Bails?” Miss Cassandra asked.

“We’ll balance some batarangs on the top.”

“Good idea!” Master Richard said, emerging from storage with a tennis ballin hand.

“I will supply the bat,” Alfredsaid, and hurried offto get it.

When he got back, the gamewas mostly set up. Master Richard was already in front of the improvised stumps, using Master Timothy’s bo staff as an improvised bat while Master Jason continued testing spin bowling against him, Timothy keeping a careful eye on the contest. Miss Cassandra was correcting Master Damian’s bowling action in preparation for his turn bowling to Master Richard.

Bruce had returned too, and stoodat the back of the cave surveying his children with bemusement. “I needed to speak to them about the Penguin,” he said.  _And instead I find this_ , Alfred could practically finish for him.

“And you can still do that,” Alfred said. “But first, I believe you are needed in the slip cordon, such as it is.”

Bruce took off his cape and cowl and obeyed. Alfred had his own position to get to as well, as Richard was calling for a proper bat, and making some truly atrocious puns as he did so. With any luck, handing the bat to him would make him stop.

As Alfred passed the main console, he flicked the broadcast off. Some cricket matches were more important than others. He wouldn't want to get distracted.


End file.
